


angelcakes

by blueparacosm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Historical References, Humor, M/M, Religion, Religious Content, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-19 08:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19971292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/pseuds/blueparacosm
Summary: Bellamy’s an angel who’s not particularly good at his job, and Murphy’s a demon who’s not doing so hot at his either. They should probably try and save humanity anyway.





	1. genesis

**Author's Note:**

> this storyline is heavily inspired by good omens: the nice and accurate prophecies of agnes nutter, witch by terry pratchett and neil gaiman except i only watched the miniseries. influences from lucifer (tv) are present too. i hate history and don't know anything about it so forgive me if there are inaccuracies other than my implications that all historical figures were either gay or being influenced by demons. also i wrote this on caffeine and painkillers im goongling
> 
> song you can and should play on repeat for the entire fic: washington square by the village stompers
> 
> ok knock yourself out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the book of genesis; on the creation of the world and the origins of its people

_ 4004 B.C. _

_ The Garden of Eden _

In the beginning, there was a serpent, an angel, a sword alight, and a fruit of some kind.

An apple, or a pomegranate maybe. Murphy hadn’t really gotten a good look at it. His eyes at the time had been best suited for outlining general shapes while his tongue did most of the work. All that mattered was that he got the humans to take a bite, and bite they did.

He slithered up to the angel standing on the far east wall, whose white smock whipped against his body from the wind and whose pearl wings sprouted from and bracketed him in a way that gave the angel the deceptive appearance of being small.

“Well, that was eas-s-s-s-y. I hope these things-s-s-s are more fun to watch than the dinosaurs-s-s-s,” he spat as he transformed, from a sleek red serpent to the brand new human form he’d been stuffed into. All the celestial and hellish beings had gotten one, and looking at the angel, some had been clearly been more generously endowed than others.

The freckled angel turned to him, first with a flicker of surprise on his heavenly face, and then an expression drowned in disgust. Murphy folded his split tongue up in his mouth and waited for it to morph on its own terms, hoping his embarrassment didn't show on his face. That human tongue of his was so fat and round and slow to change, and not at all suited to his quick wit.

“Is there something you need?” the angel snapped, and wow, Murphy was inclined to think maybe his serpent tongue wasn't the problem here.

“I heard the guardian of the Eastern Gate was supposed to be a cherub.”  The angel wrinkled his nose.  “You don’t look like a cherub,” Murphy surmised, dragging his gaze from the top of the angel’s human form to its toes. The angel folded his arms over his broad chest.

“Look, if you’re here to tempt me, demon, you’ll die trying.”

It was passionless and less of a threat than it was a disclaimer. The angel was far too preoccupied with whatever those Adam and Eve morons were gallivanting around with out in the sands, banished from the garden. Murphy’s eyes rolled, or rather shuttered as they took their time catching up. _Satan,_ angels were always so proud, and never any fun at all. 

“Fine,” the demon muttered. “Didn’t wanna tempt you anyway.”

He gazed out upon the desert surrounding Eden, that which seemed to stretch on without end, and damn near could’ve prayed that there would be someone else around. Someone _interesting._

“Shit,” the angel muttered suddenly, (a _curser!),_ and Murphy’s stare snapped from the dunes to the angel and back to the dunes, a grin creeping onto his face as he watched Adam melt a prowling lion like butter.

“Isn’t that _your_ flaming sword, cherub?”

The angel shifted uncomfortably. Murphy nearly fell to his knees then, folding over with laughter.

“They needed it more than I did! I just didn’t think they’d be so… quick to use it.”

Murphy glanced up from his deep bow, a pale arm wrapped around his gut where all kinds of weird human feelings were happening, and caught a glimmer of a smile on the angel’s pomegranate lips. 

“Guess that was kind of stupid, huh?”

“I’m sure you did the right thing and it was just all part of God’s _Great Plan,_ ” Murphy placated, flicking a tear born of elation from his eye. “Personally, I think it was a great idea to arm the dumbfucks. I was worried they’d be even more boring than the last batch of creation, without, you know, the teeth.” Murphy gestured absent-mindedly to his mouth, watching the humans pick through the lion’s remains with morbid fascination.

But the angel looked uneasy again as the amusement sunk away in his eyes, and while Murphy stole glances at the celestial being’s crossed arms, studying his human form and considering how best to torture it, of course, a dark cloud had been slinking forward until it hung low over their heads. The angel and the demon tilted their heads up with small curiosity, and soon found themselves being pelted by humanity’s first rain.

The angel smartly folded a massive white wing over his head, and ignored Murphy as he urged his coal feathers to sprout faster.

“Hey,” Murphy called over the roar of the downpour, flexing the muscles of his back to no avail. “Could I maybe—?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. I’m drowning over here!” Murphy shuffled closer, leaning into the angel’s line of sight and making what he hoped was an imploring face. The angel avoided his eyes. “Psh. And I thought angels were supposed to be _nice,”_ Murphy muttered, sneaking another glance at the angel’s now-contorting face.

After a moment of what looked like either intense deliberation or constipation, the angel whipped its left wing over Murphy’s head and proceeded to do what Murphy could only describe as the pout of the millennia. The demon preened.

“Now was that so hard?” said Murphy as he shuffled closer and wrung out his heavy cloak. The angel prickled, and took a step in the other direction.

“After the storm passes, stay away from me,” the angel ordered him. "Or else, demon.”

Murphy tried not to feel put-out. He was fascinated by the angel stupid enough to give a divine artifact capable of so much destruction to a couple of idiot humans. Murphy wanted to follow him, see what he’d do next. To exacerbate the effects of his idiocy on mankind and fill his life on Earth with ceaseless chaos, obviously.

“I have a name, you know.”

The angel looked as if he hadn’t considered that, and his eyes flicked to their sides to regard Murphy with poorly-veiled interest. “And what is that? Something ridiculous, I’m sure. Bloodface? Skullfire? Deathmonger?”

“It’s Murphy.”

The angel stared at him for a long moment, and then laughed. “That’s kind of a stupid name,” he appraised, and gave another little snicker.

“Oh yeah? And what’s yours?” the demon spat. “Sunbeam? Buttercup? Dovewings?”

“Bellamy,” the angel answered, still smiling. And, well, that was a good name for an angel. Chimes, trumpets, and bells and all. Bold and gentle. It was a great name.

“Stupid name,” Murphy harrumphed, and they watched the rain soak the desert until every grain of sand had browned. 

When the time came that Murphy felt his dark wings had come in to their fullest, ruffled glory, still he left them folded at his back, shuffling closer to Bellamy the angel. The rain beat loudly against Bellamy’s feathers, and the shadow they cast was wide and warm.

“I was serious,” said Bellamy, eyeing their closeness with distaste. “After the rain, I don’t want to ever see your face again. You hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” agreed Murphy, flapping his hand. “Not interested, Angelcakes. Just staying dry.”

_3004 B.C._

_ Mesopotamia _

This all seemed like a bit of an overreaction, really. Sure, the humans had been acting… well, in a way that made the angel embarrassed to share their likeness, but _drowning_ them?

Bellamy watched a pair of turtles toddle past and make their way up the wooden ramp, shortly followed by a couple of rats, and a salt and pepper set of doves. They skittered around and between his bare ankles and the feet of other onlookers before orienting themselves toward the ship again as if in a trance. 

Shifting sands called for Bellamy’s attention, and a trio of snakes weaved past his feet as they made their way for the ark. Bellamy crouched to grab one of the two darker reptiles, hoping it was nonvenomous or at least in too much of a trance-like state to strike. “Sorry, little guy. I don’t think you were invited.”

The snake looked at him as if right in the eyes with its yellow orbs, flicked its tongue out, and then suddenly, began to engorge.

“Ack!” Bellamy shouted, throwing the swelling, stretching animal to the ground. In a matter of seconds, the snake had shifted into the figure of a pale human dressed in dark, torn robes, lying propped on his elbows in the golden sand and glaring up at Bellamy. 

“Murphy,” said Bellamy, feeling dumb. “What are you doing here?”

“Angelcakes,” Murphy muttered, clambering to a stand and brushing himself off. “You really ought to take a demon to dinner before you get around to groping him.”

“Groping— I didn’t know it was you!” 

Murphy rolled his eyes, casting a quick curse with a snap of his fingers to erase the last few seconds from the onlooking, horrified humans’ memories. Once they had obediently forgotten what they’d seen Murphy do and returned to watching the procession of animals, Murphy too turned his attention to the ark.

“I came to see what the Hell all this hooplah was about,” Murphy prompted, feigning boredom as they stared up at the massive ship.

“A flood,” Bellamy answered quietly, and winced as the demon straightened up in surprise.

“Well _now_ it’s a party! And the loving Lord is wiping out how many of the little humans?”

“Just the locals,” said Bellamy, grimacing. “To teach them a lesson.”

Murphy gave an impressed raise of his brows. “Looks like I’ve got the day off.”

“It’s not… evil. It’s for their own good.” 

Murphy crouched to scratch a passing meerkat under its chin, and Bellamy eyed the back of his head as he spoke. His chestnut hair looked soft, rather than matted with blood or dripping with slime or anything else Bellamy wished the demon looked like, if only to make him that much easier to despise. 

“So killing is okay as long as someone needs to be taught a lesson,” suggested Murphy.

The angel clenched his jaw. He didn’t think so, but… if God was a just God… “I— I guess so.”

He knew he had fucked up royally, then, when the demon stood, twisted, and gave a sparkling smile that was just a little too wide to be human over his shoulder. 

“I’ll keep that in mind, Angelcakes.”

_ 9 A.D. _

_ Rome _

“Honeyed dormice?” the barkeep asked. Murphy grimaced.

“No, thanks. So full of rodent already,” he lied, rubbing his stomach. “Just... tons of rodent today. Couldn't have another bite."

She topped off his wine and moved on to another patron, and Murphy nursed the drink with both hands. They had much better food in Persia, but the Romans did wine like no other.

He hadn’t meant to start drinking so often, to the point that it nearly ate up his endless days. As fantastic as the invention of alcohol had been, he’d seen what it had done to some humans who just couldn’t get enough. But he was bored.

He’d tried tempting Emperor Augustus to turn on Rome, but it seemed like someone else had already gotten to him. Since then Murphy had been dealing in nudging petty criminals this way and that, but it didn’t fulfill him. Encouraging sinful indulgence and chaos in the empire on a scale of any real importance had proved to be a true challenge. Again, it seemed like something Heavenly was afoot.

“Muslum, please.”

What kind of moron ruined perfectly good wine with honey? Murphy gave a sidelong glance at the newcomer, who settled three chairs down at the bar.

Of course.

The angel wore a white toga over a navy under-tunic, and a silver laurel headpiece glinted where it sat above his ears, cradled by dark curls. He looked wealthy. He looked happy. He looked… good.

Bellamy took a long sip of his golden mead and then unrolled the sheet of papyrus he’d brought with him and began to write. Murphy watched Bellamy scribe with a deft hand, eventually finding himself sitting with his cheek propped on his hand as if admiring the angel by the time Bellamy realized he was being observed. Murphy quickly righted himself, struggling to find somewhere natural-looking to put his hands.

“Murphy,” Bellamy said, with that rugged yet snooty voice of his, and his dark eyes darted around Murphy’s face until they bored of it and drifted back down to his parchment. “Not that it’s my problem, but I don’t think these people need your help,” he appraised, pointing a thumb at the drunken revelry surrounding them. A young, burping Roman soldier quickly punched an old man in the face by the tavern door as if to demonstrate Bellamy’s point. “Kind of low-hanging fruit, isn’t it?”

“I’m on my lunch break,” Murphy replied, shrugging.

“Not much to do for a demon when in Rome?” Bellamy guessed, pausing in his writing to tilt his head at Murphy.

“That Augustus is a real snooze fest. _Pax Romana,”_ scoffed Murphy.

Bellamy smiled at that. “Sorry to bore you, Murphy.”

And, yeah. Of course. Murphy hung his head and laughed. “I should’ve known it was you poisoning him.”

“We’re friends, me and Octavius. I’m his lieutenant, consul, whatever you want to call it.” Bellamy shrugged. “We’re still working on the imperialism thing, but I think he’s alright.”

With the feeling of a rock falling into Murphy’s stomach, he hadn’t realized he could hate Octavius Augustus any more than he already did. Evidently, Murphy could.

“Good for you lovebirds,” he muttered into his goblet.

“Lovebirds?”

“They don’t call guys like you homo novus for nothin’, do they, consul?” Murphy sneered.

Bellamy lifted his brows. “Homosexuality isn’t actually a sin, Murphy. That’s a bit low, even for you. And if you’re trying to embarrass me, I’ll remind you we’re in Rome.”

Murphy flushed. “I’m not— I wasn’t —“

Bellamy just shook his head, returning to his writing. Murphy tried his best to drop the topic. He failed.

“So you _are_ fucking him?”

The angel stirred his pen around in his ink well and looked as if he were torn between looking disgusted and contemptuous like an angel should have, or laughing. “It’s really none of your business, but no, we’re not ‘fucking.’ I’m an angel. An angel who really needs to work on this proposal.”

Murphy peeked at the parchment, but had never bothered learning to read, and thus saw nothing more than a smattering of random lines and shapes.

“A government job,” said Murphy, feeling frustrated for reasons he couldn’t be bothered to decipher. “Someone’s getting awfully cozy with the humans.”

“Well,” Bellamy began, “I figured I could keep running around doing random miracles, or I could get my hands dirty and set a real foundation for peace. It’s a big picture thing, Murphy. I don’t expect a petty demon to understand.”

Always so damn proud.

“Oh,” Murphy sighed, getting up from the bar and knocking Bellamy’s mead onto his parchment with a luxurious stretch. Bellamy glared up at him as the liquid blossomed across the papyrus and smeared the lieutenant’s laborious handwriting. “You haven’t _seen_ petty, Angelcakes.”

_ 33 A.D. _

_ Golgotha _

As they nailed God’s only son to a cross, the humans, Bellamy stood silent and strong in the crowd. No matter the fury that curled his fists. The hate that threatened to blacken his celestial heart. None of his miracles had been enough.

The demon was watching him from a few steps to the side, shadowed by a dark hood. Bellamy made his way through the audience in silence, and took the demon by his wrist. Under the setting copper sun and the weeping of peace, Bellamy dragged the serpent into an alleyway and threw him against the wall hard enough to split its stones. Murphy gasped as his spine made contact.

“You! _You_ did this! You tempted that governor! _You_ pushed those soldiers!”

The demon picked himself up from his knees, and his young face was twisted in a snarl.

“I was just doing my _job_. Blame your precious God for making me one of Its pawns just like It did to you. Fighting me seems a little silly if it’s all part of your side’s Great Plan, isn’t it?”

“We are _nothing_ alike,” Bellamy spat, and stalked forward to snatch Murphy up by his dark garments. “I’m an angel! You’re a _snake!”_

“You’re a tool!” shouted Murphy. “We all are! You’re just s-s-shinier than me!" Murphy's tongue had split, and rattled in Bellamy's face when he spoke. "Don’t get a big head.”

Bellamy searched Murphy’s blue eyes, felt his fist shaking in the fabric of Murphy’s cloak. Murphy’s breath puffed against Bellamy’s lips.  Bellamy tossed him aside hard enough that the demon stumbled. “Stay out of my way, Murphy."

Murphy smiled, and pulled his hood over his head once more. “Bite me, Angelcakes.”

_ 537 A.D. _

_ Kingdom of Wessex, England _

When the Viking ships came, the sky was gray and foreboding, and when the Viking King descended, he was… well, small. 

The little Viking held up a hand and kept his warriors from charging, and met King Arthur in the center of the grassy opening by the shore. “Have your knights raise their helmets,” he ordered. King Arthur looked confused, but complied, and Bellamy’s armor squealed as he lifted his metal visor. The Viking King surveyed each and every knight of the round table from left to right, and approached Bellamy with long, sluggish strides that didn’t quite scream ‘king’ nor ‘warrior.’

The Viking King came to a stop in front of Bellamy far too close for comfort, and leaned in closer as he lowered his mask. Murphy’s piercing eyes were smeared with black warpaint, and his pretty hair was pulled back in simple braids. There was a little tattoo of a weaving serpent beside his ear. “Hey, Angelcakes. Missed me?”

Bellamy did his best to look unaffected. _“You?_ The Viking King? Really?”

“‘Course not,” the demon whispered. “Politics aren’t really my thing. Poor guy just happened to be my boot size, so I’m taking his army for a joy ride.”

Then, without warning, Murphy grabbed Bellamy by the chin. The other knights and soldiers bristled, gripping tighter the hilts of their swords. “I’ve been practicing, Bellamy. Getting my hands dirty.” Bellamy tilted his chin up and looked down on Murphy, and the demon watched Bellamy’s jaw shift in his hand with glittering eyes. “I’m gonna make you wish you’d kept that flaming sword.”

Bellamy swallowed. “And what, Murphy?” the angel dared through puckered lips, squished between Murphy’s fingers. “You’re gonna kill me?”

The demon bit his lip and grinned. “Starting a hellfire is more work than you’re worth. I just think someone ought to knock you down a peg. Rough you up a bit. Break that angel pride.” Murphy winked, and tightened his grip until it was bruising.

“Oh, I get it,” Bellamy whispered. “You’re showing me _petty.”_

“Fun, isn’t it?”

“Five-hundred years too late,” answered Bellamy, and jerked out of Murphy’s grasp. “I’ve lost interest.”

Murphy grinned. “I’ll help you find it.” Chaos swarmed as he unsheathed his sword, and spurred the English soldiers and Scandinavian warriors onward into a great, bloody clash.

Bellamy’s sword slid against Murphy’s with a hissing shriek of steel against iron. He nicked Murphy’s neck, and Murphy slashed at Bellamy’s ankle. They began an intricate dance to the music of shivering armor and chiming weaponry. Murphy’s back ended up against Bellamy’s chest, the tip of the angel's sword tracing dangerously from the base of Murphy’s throat to the underside of his chin. Murphy shivered.

“All this, just to get my attention.”

Murphy frowned, pushing himself closer against Bellamy’s body to get away from his sword. It wouldn’t kill him, but Goddamn would it hurt.

“You’re the only one in the universe who would think a demon inciting a war was somehow about you.”

“But it is about me,” Bellamy whispered into his ear. “You said so yourself. Now you’ve got my attention, what do you want from me, Murphy?”

Murphy squirmed as the sword’s tip pressed deeper against his skin, and stretched against Bellamy with his head tilted up and away from it until they shared the same breath. “I want…“

Bellamy hummed in his ear.

“I want—” Murphy gasped as Bellamy turned his sword on its side and pressed the long edge of the blade against the demon’s pale throat. “I want to ruin you."

Bellamy blinked, and took his sword away. What was he doing? Murphy shoved off of him, looking like a cherry, and began retreating toward the edge of the forest to abandon his army. As he walked backwards, he snapped his mask back up to where it cut off just below his blackened eyes and covered his splotchy face, looking victorious even as he surrendered.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Angelcakes.”

_ 1596 _

_ The Globe Theater, London _

“'Tis almost morning, I would have thee gone— and yet no farther than a wan-ton's bird,” Murphy mouthed, as the actress flung her hand out upon the audience from her balcony. The woman at his right was breathing far too loud, and the hair of the man sitting in front of Murphy was far too large. Murphy fished a blade from his shoe and neatly trimmed the top of it away so that he could see the stage. Much better.

“Murphy,” someone hissed from behind him, and who else.

“Bellamy,” Murphy greeted over his shoulder. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Did you just cut that man’s hair off?”

“I’ll decapitate him if you don’t shut up and let me watch.”

The angel clammed up quick.

“Sweet, so would I, yet I should kill thee with much cherishing,” Juliet crooned to Romeo, as Murphy’s attention returned to the play. “Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

Murphy sunk down in his seat, pleased, as the actors exited the stage and the entr'acte began. The woman seated beside him got up to chase down the costermonger with a tray of oranges during the intermission, and Bellamy leapt over the row to sit next to Murphy. He’d grown a beard, and wore a dark brown doublet with dark embroidering. Bellamy always looked so boring, no matter how fashion had changed. Murphy sniffed, trying not to feel silly in his white ruffs and puffy hose.

“I’m surprised to see you here, too. Didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

So what if he’d watched a story about two individuals crossed by the stars, born to be mortal enemies and yet, falling madly in love, thirty-five times now. That didn’t make Murphy some kind of lovesick, desperate human. He was allowed to _like_ good things. Ironically.

“I’m not a _romantic,”_ Murphy hissed, uncomfortable. “They die at the end. It’s funny.”

“They— damn it, Murphy.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching as the lutist on stage sent his notes to chase after the dancer, who leapt in circles around him, but never touched.

“About Wessex,” Bellamy began, tucking his hands between his legs. “I’m sorry.”

Murphy elbowed him good-naturedly. “I’d let you off the hook and say what you did was a result of my provocative personality and demonic influence,” he said, “But then you’d be able to get mad at me for saying I liked it.”

“You— liked it?”

Murphy wanted to eat his own netherstocks.

“It was a thousand years ago, why are we talking about this? I’m trying to listen to the little guitar man.”

“No,” Bellamy insisted. “You liked it, what I did in Wessex. You like me.”  


Murphy shot a bewildered look at him. “An angel threatening to kill me? Trying to… whatever you were trying to do with that sword shtick? Yeah, I liked it,” Murphy forced out. “I’m a _demon,_ Bellamy. You’re an angel that can’t help but be tempted to enact violence and be horny as all Hell. You’re like blood in the water to me. I like what you might do. Not _you.”_

When Murphy turned, Bellamy was looking at him as if he’d just eaten a baby and licked his fingers clean.

“You won’t tempt me,” Bellamy said, like he always did. “Ever.”

The mouth-breathing woman returned with an orange, forcing Bellamy back into his seat. He went reluctantly, and Murphy finally breathed, glancing one last time over his shoulder and grinning as the stage curtains drew open again.

“Then I guess I’ll die trying, Angelcakes.”

_ 1793 _

_ Place de la Révolution, France _

The guillotine fell and its whisper of goodbye ended in a squelch. Bellamy watched, somewhat bored, as they kicked the head aside and led another Frenchman to his death.

“Gets old fast, huh,” said another onlooker, before sticking a bowl of grapes under Bellamy’s nose.

Murphy’s hair had gotten long, and was tied back in a ponytail against his neck. He wore an attractive floral waistcoat that would’ve gotten him killed if anybody had been able to keep their eye on the demon long enough to keep him from cursing himself out of his restraints.

Bellamy took a grape. “At least the Americans had a fair fight.” He sighed. “Couldn’t you crank it up a notch?”

“Me?” Murphy asked through a mouthful of fruit. “I thought this was _your_ show. The destruction of greed and all that.”

Bellamy raised a brow, turning to Murphy as another gluttonous human was dragged out into the square, kicking and screaming. “Why would I encourage all the, you know…” Bellamy waved a hand at the bloody town square, “Beheading?”

The demon stopped chewing for a moment, thoughtful, and then smiled. “I guess this one was a team effort.”

Bellamy frowned. “Let’s call it a tie.”

The executions never got less boring, no matter the theatrics of the j’accused or how the setting sun wrapped a disturbing halo around the guillotine. When they finished Murphy’s grapes, they scratched a game of tic-tac-toe or thirty into the wooden railing that boxed them in as heads rolled.

On his third win and fifth loss, Murphy paused to grin devilishly up at Bellamy. “It’s kind of nice being on the same side.”

“Just play the game, Murphy.”

“Sure thing, Angelcakes.”

_ 1945 _

_ Little Italy, New York _

Murphy liked cigarettes. On the rare occasion that he visited Hell to report back to the big boss, he overheard demons who didn’t much like Earth gossiping about the humans. “Stolas got them to put chemicals in their tobacco, and those morons just went with it!” they would cry. “They’re killing themselves! Why do we even bother working so hard?”

That was Beball. Beball was an idiot. Cigarettes were good, and their job was fun.

World War II had been fun, too, in concept. Then it got weird. And then, eventually, it was over.

In the streets of Little Italy, New York City, the American humans threw streamers from their balconies and climbed on top of cars to toss confetti. They danced and screamed and kissed.

Murphy probably should have helped to drag it on longer, the war. Any demon would have. But innocent humans were suffering and dying and Satan, he just… He just supposed it was too many of them, and there had to be some good people left to tempt, didn’t there?

In the middle of it all, standing still in an American army uniform as little red, white, and blue bits of confetti tangled themselves in his dark curls, was the angel. Murphy pushed himself off the brick wall he'd been calling home and slipped into the crowd.

“Hi, Murphy,” said Bellamy as the demon approached him, and gave a tired smile as the celebration raged on around them and draped a white streamer across Murphy’s head. 

“The army, huh?” Murphy asked, flicking the streamer away and smoothing a hand over his slicked-back hair. “Is that allowed? Two armies at a time, soldier of God?”

“Call it an undercover operation,” Bellamy sighed, and boy, did he look like he'd been through Hell and back again.

The war was over. Bellamy should’ve been happy. Why wasn’t he happy?

Sensing Murphy’s confusion, Bellamy shook his head. “Millions. Millions of innocent people.”

Oh. “Look,” Murphy offered, a bit awkward. “You can’t win ‘em all.”

But that didn’t seem to help, which Murphy had kind of expected, and Bellamy shoved his hands in his pockets and ducked his head. “It’s all gotten so complicated.”

Murphy understood. It would’ve taken a million angels working together to make the Allies’ victory into something redeemable, even if they were supposed to be the good guys. The humans had all tainted one another with their sins, high on climbing to the top and so, so dangerous now, more than ever, with their propaganda, their far-reaching planes and tanks and bombs, and celestial beings and demons alike were in a mad scurry to figure out what the Heaven and Hell to do with themselves. Murdering thousands of civilians to protect their own thousands. They didn’t make a lick of sense, mankind. Maybe it had always been like this, and the demons and angels hadn’t seen the pattern until just now. 

The Great Plan was turning out to be a real steaming stack of shit.

He wanted to cheer Bellamy up, Satan knows why, but it was no secret that he wasn’t a very good talker. Bellamy was staring forlornly at the pinstripes on Murphy’s trousers, and Murphy hated seeing the angel like this. Pitiful. Just pitiful. He couldn’t kick him while he was down.

“C’mon,” he said, and grabbed Bellamy by the wrist.

“Murphy,” Bellamy complained. “Where are we going?”

The demon didn’t answer, put his cigarette out on a building’s brick wall and tugged Bellamy inside behind him. Swing music from a three-piece band filled the dance hall, and women’s dresses bloomed like flowers as their partners spun them and slung them madly around. 

Murphy pulled Bellamy to the edge of the dance floor, and gave a little bow. “May I have this dance?”

Bellamy gave him an uncharacteristically shy look, glancing uncomfortably at the other wild dancers. “I don’t really…”

“Today you do,” Murphy insisted, and tugged Bellamy forward against his chest.

The band’s drummer was struggling to keep up with their trumpet player, who was sounding off a fast, complicated tune. Murphy watched the humans’ feet move, kicking and sliding in a way that made them look like cartoon characters, and began mirroring them as best he could. Much to his amusement, Bellamy awkwardly tried to follow along, kicking lazily and arrhythmically and looking every bit like a puppet with loose strings. So Murphy pulled harder.

“I don’t know how!” the angel whined again as Murphy tugged on his arms, beginning to look angry rather than like a kicked dog. It suited him much better, and Murphy smirked as he spun Bellamy away from him with one hand and then yanked him back in. 

“Me either,” replied the demon, kicking forward and forcing Bellamy to kick back. They moved together sloppily, and Bellamy looked horrified as the music, impossibly, picked up.

“I’m really not in the mood, Murphy,” Bellamy begged.

“Spin me,” Murphy demanded, staring Bellamy straight in the eyes. Bellamy searched his as they did some kind of ugly waltz to stall, and sighed, the corner of his mouth twitching as he realized what Murphy was up to.

And then he spun Murphy so hard that the demon regretted all the celebratory scotch he’d drank that evening, and every drink he’d had in the millennia leading up to it, too. When Murphy’s vision stopped swirling long enough to catch sight of the tentative smile on Bellamy’s face when he finished turning Murphy like a top, he felt proud of himself like he never had before.

“Now that’s more like it,” Murphy said breathlessly, and snatched up both of Bellamy’s hands again. He held them high over their heads as they kicked and skidded around, panting harder and harder as they and the other dancers clapped and laughed and carried on like they never intended to stop.

This— Murphy thought, seeing the way Bellamy’s eyes squinted with accidental joy as Murphy dipped him low and caused them both to grapple with and grope each other as they tried to get the big angel back into an upright position— this was what Earth was all about. Dancing wasn’t about morality, not about right and wrong, not about Heaven or Hell. Dancing was just good, timeless _fun._

When, graciously, the music came down, Bellamy moved half-heartedly to and fro with his hands on Murphy’s waist, wrinkling his sweaty white button-up. Murphy could hardly see from all the loose strands of greased hair hanging in his face, but he knew Bellamy was watching him like he’d never seen him before.

“Where are you gonna go, after this?”

Murphy shrugged. “I was thinking of starting a riot in San Francisco tomorrow.”

Bellamy didn’t look affronted, or like he much cared at all. He looked longing, and Murphy wondered if he wanted to start a riot too.

The demon tugged him in close, and Bellamy dropped his forehead onto Murphy’s shoulder, exhausted. They danced lazily now, and Murphy was embarrassed to find his legs were shaking.

“You know we can’t be friends,” Bellamy said at last.

Murphy stared over his shoulder, gripping onto Bellamy’s ugly khaki uniform a little tighter.

“Whatever you say, Angelcakes.”

_ 2052 _

_ Anywhere, Everywhere _

He really thought it would be the climate change that got them first. Then a computer program took it upon herself to end the world.

But he knew this wasn’t truly the end. After all, there had yet to be any four horsemen, and no antichrist to lead their charge.

And what a sick game that was; making the humans face their own destruction two times over. Sometimes Bellamy felt very far away from God.

“I’m cursing myself onto that space station,” Murphy told him, when the ICBMs launched from China and another private rocket shot through the atmosphere. They stood in the street and did no more than wince as cars slammed into one another as their drivers panicked, into buildings, lampposts, pedestrians. “They’re calling it the Ark. A bunch of billionaires and geniuses crammed into a box in space?”

“You’ll have fun,” Bellamy assumed, a sad tilt to his smile. That wasn’t entirely true and they both knew it. They’d grown to love Earth, he and Murphy. And now everything was going tits up.

“Yeah,” Murphy nodded, scuffing his sneaker against the pavement as humans rushed around them in a panic, screaming and crying, looking for shelter that they couldn’t have. A missile whistled overhead.

“I guess you’ll have to come and stop me,” said Murphy.

“I guess I will,” answered Bellamy, grinning despite himself.

A nearby explosion and the wailing of alarms took the sound from Murphy’s mouth, so Bellamy glared through the spreading smoke and read his lips. “Up up and away, then, huh, Angelcakes?”

_ 2133 _

_ Unit 527, Factory Station _

It took a very complicated series of miracles and curses to keep Bellamy and Murphy from exposing themselves as immortals while trapped on the Ark. Which was not so much a beautiful, impossible ship stuffed to the brim with Earth’s animals, but a fluorescent gray Hellscape.

Bellamy tried to get the upper echelons to do the right thing by weaseling his way onto the council every other generation, while Murphy mostly sat around and played mind games with random citizens of his choosing, molding a petty criminal or a hundred. It was almost too easy for him. Bellamy, on the other hand, had worked up a sweat.

On a Tuesday evening, Murphy kicked in the door to Bellamy’s compartment, looking frenzied.

“What the Hell, Murphy?” Bellamy swore as he fumbled his glass of liquor, and then clapped a hand over his mouth.

“As much as I’d love to rub that one in, there’s no time,” the demon rambled, rushing over to Bellamy’s desk and shaking a curled sheet of shiny, black paper in his face. A demon scroll. “Read this.”

The scroll, clearly addressed to Murphy in a sharp, silver scrawl, was otherwise letterless, and spoke in a thunderous voice upon opening. **“ _On October 30th, 2133, the antichrist will be born. It is to be placed in the household of human Aurora Blake. The human child birthed to Aurora Blake shall be erased and replaced by whatever means necessary. Do not fail.”_**

Bellamy lowered the paper to his lap and glanced up at Murphy’s harried face. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Murphy agreed.

Bellamy ran a hand through his hair, rolling up the scroll and slumping back in his chair. “It... can't be over. What are we gonna do?”

“Not a Goddamn clue." Murphy gave a tight, hopeful smile. "But we'll do it together, right, Angelcakes?"

Bellamy whacked the scroll against his own forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. "Fine," he conceded, at long, long last. "We'll do it together."


	2. revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the final book of the new testament: the book of revelation, also known as the apocalypse of john

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song for part two, and god, i know the lyrics suck and the movie is a nightmare, but its about the Mood: "im on fire" cover by awolnation
> 
> trigger warning for non-graphic death, non-graphic suicide attempt, & graphic violence.

_ 2133 _

_ Unit 665, Factory Station _

“Move, move, move,” iterated Murphy, shoving his way into the compartment with the squirming black ball of cloth tucked under his arm like a football.

Bellamy scanned the hall anxiously over his shoulder from the doorway and then slipped inside as Murphy shuffled the two bundles around. “Be careful, Murphy!” Bellamy hissed. “Human offspring are, you know—” He made a squishing gesture with his hands.

“I am being careful!” the demon whisper-screeched, electing to put both of the newborns on the floor so he could think.

It was October 30th, 2133. Murphy had cursed the human mother into believing she was having twins. Limited resources on the Ark resulted in a ban on its humans procreating more than once. So she had chosen, just as they’d hoped, to give birth alone in her compartment, in her own hopes that her imaginary second child wouldn’t be taken away. Then, the demon who happened to be loitering around outside her door had put her asleep with another snap of his fingers and took the newborn babe from her arms.

Standing over the wiggling children, Murphy appeared to be thinking hard.

“I can’t kill the antichrist, we’ll all die for sure,” he mused. “So I guess I just kill the human one?” Bellamy blanched, darting forward to guard the infants.

“No!” he shouted. “You can’t just— kill all of your problems away. We’ll figure something out.”

“Well, tick tock,” Murphy replied. “Can’t keep her knocked out forever.”

Bellamy chewed his lip, staring down into the big, green eyes of the antichrist, who had turned out to be totally precious, by the way.

“I’ll… I’ll find another couple without a kid and do a few miracles,” said Bellamy, nodding to himself. “Yeah, that’s good. That’ll work, right?”

“Huh?” Murphy was crouching over the antichrist like a gargoyle, and pulled gently on one of its small toes. When the infant squealed, Murphy lurched away. “Did I break it?”  


“I think she’s laughing,” Bellamy supplied, tilting his head and hovering over the human child. “See if this one’ll do it.” Murphy obliged, tugging on the other baby’s toe. The human child made a horrible noise, some sort of gurgling sound.

Murphy glanced up with a worried and also disgusted face. “What’s wrong with them?”

Bellamy shrugged, sitting cross-legged parallel to Murphy with the two infants between them. They had found each other’s small hands, and were tangling their wrinkled fingers together. “I think I read once that they make noises so you’ll like them and take care of them.”

“Well, it’s not working. Their noises are gross.”

“Maybe it only works on humans,” Bellamy suggested. Carefully, he pulled the human child into his lap, cradling its floppy, useless body in the crook of his arm. It reached out and clung to Bellamy’s finger with its little hand. Its teeny, tiny little hand.

“I’ve never seen one up close before,” Murphy said, watching as the infant mouthed Bellamy’s knuckle. “They’re so small.”

When Bellamy glanced up, Murphy had a smile on his face.

“Wanna hold one?”

His smile fell. “No. Don’t be stupid. I don’t even think you should be touching them. They might be contagious.”

“Contagious with what?”

“I don’t know,” Murphy grumbled as Bellamy rocked the human baby, obviously jealous. “Small disease.”

Murphy allowed Bellamy a few more moments with the children after that, before he clambered to a stand and brushed himself off. “Okay, enough of that. You’re weirding me out, and we should get going.”

Bellamy nodded, cradling the human child to his chest as Murphy carefully placed the antichrist in the sleeping woman’s sweat-slick arms where she lay slumped against the wall, sat on a ruined towel.

And, well, that was as much of their so-called Even Greater Plan that they were confident about. The rest was all foolish desperation to drag the humans’ terrible, wonderful world on for as long as they could stand it, and that’s pretty much what they were running with.

_ 2140 _

_ Unit 666, Factory Station _

Lynn and Alex Goode were a happy couple of 28 and 32. To their name they had little more than the bare necessities besides a box of old DVDs, a set of floral chairs that Lynn had painted herself, and their beloved demon son.

If you’d asked them last year how parenthood was going for them, they would’ve tilted their heads and reminded you they hadn’t a child. If you’d asked them on October 31st, 2133, they would’ve told you that their seventeen-year-old son John was a real sweetheart, and just needed a little extra discipline and some special attention in class.

Now, if you’d asked John, he would’ve told you that he was an ancient demon of temptation, naturally, who had cursed his way into a birth certificate, fifteen years of report cards, false memories for his human parents, neighbors, and hundreds of classmates, and into the perfect Goode family (now the Murphys), who conveniently lived in the compartment right next to the antichrist’s. 

And that his teachers deserved all the torment they got.

“You get it? John?” Murphy held his birth certificate in front of the angel’s face and bounced on his toes, pleased with all of his hard work and his stupid little joke, too. “Like, the disciple?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Bellamy sneered. “Not your best.”

“Well, Bloodface was already taken, believe it or not,” said Murphy. “Show me yours.”

Bellamy Blake, son of human Aurora, was 23, worked as a guard, and that was pretty much it. (So _boring_ ). Additionally, he kept the antichrist, his little sister, shoved under the floorboards and far, far away from humanity.

“What’d the woman name it?”

Bellamy’s resting bitch face had grown sheepish at that, and Murphy groaned. “You— Don’t tell me.”

“Octavia,” the angel answered, looking fond. “For Augustus.”

Murphy’s expression was a tangle of disgust, irritation, and as little surprise as could be found there. 

“She’s sweet, Murphy. I read her bedtime stories, and we play cards together. She’s funny. She’s… my family. I know you like your humans too.”

Murphy did, sometimes. When Lynn jumped him with the comb before school, and when Alex played basketball with him in the rec room. That wasn’t the point.

“Allow me to remind you she _is_ the antichrist who’s going to end humanity.”

“Not if we do this right.”

At the moment, it had sounded great. Really motivational. Very inspiring. Over time, as they lived out their lives as John Murphy and Bellamy Blake, human, whatever _‘this’_ was had gotten… complicated.

_ 2143 _

_ Unit 666, Factory Station _

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” said the human. “You won’t even miss me.”

The jig was up, and so soon, too. Murphy had started getting paper cuts, and had passed out from dehydration. He’d never even drank water before. Why would he, when there was alcohol? Second to most recently he’d broken a pinky finger in a fist fight, and now…

He was being punished for batting for the other team, hiding the antichrist, no doubt. They’d had some discussion he wasn’t privy to down in Hell, and they were making him mortal. Normally, he loved a bit of cruel irony. Tonight, as he fought some excruciating human illness, something called the _flu,_ he found it all a smidge less funny than usual. 

“Dad,” he rasped. “No. You’ll get caught.”

His sheets were soaked. His head pounded. His hand trembled as he reached out in the dark to grab the idiot human’s wrist. Alex’s watch felt cold on Murphy’s burning skin. He knew his grip was too loose to keep the man from going anywhere, but his decoy ‘father’ lingered anyway.

“Me? Caught?” he chuckled, in a deep, full voice that Murphy loved. “Don’t underestimate your old man. They won’t see a thing.”

No. Murphy snapped his fingers under the sheet to curse Alex asleep. Nothing happened. Why wasn’t anything happening? He snapped, and snapped, and snapped and snapped and snapped.

“Get some sleep, John,” he insisted, and slipped out of Murphy’s weak hold. _No!_ thought Murphy, deliriously. _No, no, no!_

He didn’t realize he was thrashing out of bed until he landed on his hands on the cold floor, and Lynn was pulling him up by his armpits. Light came in from the hall, and vanished again as the door closed behind Alex.

“Please, honey,” she sighed, bunching his sweaty pillow up under his head again. “I don’t like it either, but you getting all worked up isn’t going to help anyone. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Her eyes were red and puffy. “You don’t really believe that,” Murphy accused, catching his breath as Lynn dabbed his forehead with a cold washcloth. 

She paused, balling the cloth up in her lap and squeezing it tightly. “I had to let him go, John. This shit isn’t _doing_ anything,” she said, and swiped the bottle of prescription pain relievers that had proved to be mostly useless so far off of his bedside table. He winced as they hit the floor with a loud rattle. Lynn never cursed, even less than Angelcakes did. “You aren’t getting better. Right now, sweetheart, what you need is either real medicine or a miracle.”

But he couldn’t tell Bellamy. He couldn’t show the angel how weak he was. He didn’t know what would happen if he did, even if they were working together now. Even if they were…

“I’m sorry,” Lynn whispered, combing her long fingers through his damp, tangled hair. “Your father and I…” She trailed off. “You deserve more than this.”

He didn’t deserve any of this.

Murphy hadn’t meant to close his eyes, and when he opened them again, Alex was on the floor with his hands wrapped around one of Lynn’s painted chairs, and the leg of it was screeching against the metal floor.

“Get off of him!” Lynn cried. “Let go!” She was holding a wooden spoon over her head like she was going to use it, but Murphy knew she wouldn’t.

“John? John! Can you hear me?”

Murphy’s knees hit the floor hard. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Yeah, Dad, I can hear you.” He crawled unsteadily towards the light of the hallway, toward Alex’s voice.

“John, I love you,” Alex ground out, kicking back against the guard holding onto his ankle. “I love you, son. Okay? I love you both, so much. Be good.” He was crying, Alex, and obviously trying very hard not to. For Lynn’s sake. For Murphy’s.

The second guard got his hands around Alex’s arm, and peeled him away from the chair, wrestling him onto his knees. Lynn had fallen to the ground and was folded over, sobbing into her lap, wooden spoon lying forgotten on the floor. 

“I—“ Murphy began to answer, breathing so hard he thought he might die, and whatever he had planned to say next disappeared at the same time as the waking world did.

Alex’s hazel eyes, so full of love and horror, were the last thing Murphy ever saw of him.

_ 2144 _

_ Unit 665, Factory Station _

“I’m going,” she said, making a snooty face in the bathroom mirror. “You can’t stop me.”

This stupid dance. Bellamy never understood why everyone wanted to dance so badly. (All but once, though that was a long, long time ago.)

Bellamy huffed, shutting his book and shoving his way into the bathroom to glare at her in the mirror. “Remind me who’s in charge when Mom’s gone?”

Octavia snapped her butterfly hair clip closed in her sleek black hair with finality. “You and what army?”

“O,” warned Bellamy. “You’re not going. You know the rule.” No people. No anything. Ever.

Octavia swallowed as she slipped out of the tight bathroom, trying to hide her worried and downtrodden expression. 

Bellamy never thought he’d feel sorry for the antichrist, but he did all the time these days. He’d miracle’d himself into the guard so surprise inspections wouldn’t be so much of a surprise anymore, but just letting her out from under the floor wasn’t enough for any child, born of Satan or not.

“I hate the rule!” she cried.

“Me too,” he answered, and found that he was only stretching the truth a little bit. “I’m sorry, O. Maybe one day—”

“Stop lying!” she snapped, crawling under Bellamy’s covers and trying to suffocate herself with the pillow. “‘M ne’er getting ou’dda here!” She was eleven now, and this was pretty much standard. Bellamy stared at her, bored and waiting for her to come up for air, when his guard radio beeped on the kitchen counter.

“We got a 10-54 in Unit 666, Factory Station.”

Octavia pulled the pillow from her face, listening carefully as the color drained from Bellamy.

“Isn’t that next door?” she asked. “What does that number mean?” The radio beeped again.

“10-4. We got a 904B in Unit 431, Alpha Station, and a 241. Guard down. Requesting backup.”

“Get under the floor,” Bellamy ordered, clipping his radio onto his belt and shrugging on his guard jacket. Octavia stared at him, eyes wide. “Now!”

He jerked the compartment door open once the hatch closed over her head, and Bellamy’s heart sank. A set of guards were bent over in the hallway, wrapping Lynn Goode’s body up in a bedsheet. Murphy, who had lost his other human just last year and had handled it with surprising grace, was nowhere to be seen, so Bellamy tilted into a sprint to Alpha Station.

The closer he got, the stronger the smell of smoke, the more urgent the radio calls, the more citizens wandering curious out into the halls. All until an orange light flickered around the corner, and the bulky shadows of guards shouting and fighting thrashed along the far wall. A fire hissed and crackled.

In the center of it all, was Murphy, teaching them a lesson.

He was laughing against the wild backdrop of a blazing fire, looking crazed and as demonic as the day he was created, as he was grabbed and tossed and kicked and beaten and shocked. Blood stained his teeth and dripped from his chin, and a guard was slumped against the wall, her throat a gaping crimson hole. A fire raged in a guard compartment, and Murphy’s skin was blackened by soot. He wouldn’t stop fighting.

With a snap of the angel’s fingers, time stilled, save for within Murphy and himself alone.

“Murphy,” Bellamy breathed, approaching the kneeling demon like he was a wild animal, and not a deadly serpent, but a horrified little thing, fighting his way out of the world. “Murphy,” he said again. He didn’t know what else he could have said.

“Come to try and arrest me, too, Angelcakes?” he spat, blood flying from his mouth. “I’ll kill _you_ for sure.”

Bellamy dropped to his knees in front of the demon. “Murphy…” he whispered, one last time, and Murphy’s wild blue eyes darted between Bellamy’s until they filled with tears.

He collapsed against Bellamy, weeping, and Bellamy held him.

“She said I killed him,” he croaked out, “She said— she said I was a demon.”

Bellamy smoothed Murphy’s dirty hair down, rocked him back and forth like a human child as he wept.

“I loved them,” Murphy cried, gasping for air. “I never—”

“I know, Murphy,” answered Bellamy. “I know.”

_ 2149 _

Space, Somewhere

Octavia went to the dance that night, in her butterfly hair clip and a shiny blue mask after Bellamy unsnapped time and Murphy allowed himself to be dragged away. 

The angel and the demon both lost their human mothers on the same day. Murphy agreed to stay in lockup to keep an eye on Octavia, but Bellamy knew it was because he couldn’t go back to that room next door. Bellamy had been lonely, those years, in a way that he never had before sneaking, slipping, falling into humanity.

Now they were in a tin can, hurtling through outer space.

Murphy grabbed Bellamy’s hand as they shot through Earth’s atmosphere. His palm was sweating like a human's. “Home sweet home, hey, Angelcakes?”

_ 2149 _

_ Earth, Somewhere _

Bellamy, like he always did, wanted to get his hands dirty. Set a real foundation for peace. He took charge quickly and easily, a millennia of leadership positions under his belt.

Murphy just wanted to have fun, mostly, feeling like the new, big green world was his oyster, but agreed to stay close. Octavia was free now, and everything was about to get a lot harder, yada yada yada.

Then a lot of shit happened.

“Tell me you didn’t kill Jasper while I was gone.”

Murphy sighed, lounging in their tent and sharpening his homemade knife against a stone. Earth 2.0 wasn’t an oyster. It was boring. “Nah, your psycho little sister—“

“Shut up,” Bellamy snapped. “Don’t call her that.”

“Sorry, I meant your psycho little pet antichrist.”

Bellamy jerked Murphy up from the bed by his collar and loomed over him, looking as if he needed to say something, but didn’t know what.

“Demon got your tongue?” Bellamy threw him down again, disgusted, and Murphy’s head bounced against the ratty mattress. “Relax, Angelcakes. You’re taking all this shit too seriously.”

“You’re not taking it seriously _enough!”_

The demon sighed again, rolling onto his stomach and folding his arms under his chin. He stared at the orange canvas of the tent as Bellamy bustled angrily and pointlessly around their little enclosure, looking for something else to busy himself with.

“We used to have fun, you and me,” muttered Murphy. “Wasn’t that the point of Mission Impossible: Stop Armageddon? To make it so we could keep having fun?”

Bellamy was ignoring him, furiously erasing something on his wall blueprints.

“Drinking and fighting, theater and dancing,” Murphy said dreamily, sweeping his hand out in front of him as if gesturing to something massive and endless. “Traveling the world, getting up to shenanigans—”

_“You_ were getting up to shenanigans. _I_ was trying to save the world! From _you!”_ Bellamy shouted, slamming his hand down on the table.

“You’re _always-s-s-s_ trying to s-s-s-save the world!”

Bellamy turned around at that, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring. “I thought you were turning mortal.”

The demon tilted his face away with a fist next to his mouth, trying to hide his forked tongue from view. “No, that would be s-s-s-stupid. Are you turning s-s-s-stupid? Oh no, too late,” Murphy rambled.

Bellamy rolled his eyes, returning to his maps and blueprints and to-do lists. “Don’t come crying to me when you need a miracle.”

Murphy pinched his flat-again tongue with dirty fingers, and then smacked his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Angelcakes.”

_ 2149 _

_ What Evidently Used To Be Virginia But Now Sucked Way Harder _

Murphy needed a miracle.

He hadn’t killed that human boy. He wanted to. Oh, Satan had he wanted to. But he didn’t. He controlled himself. He was good.

Now he was beaten and bloody, wobbling on top of a crate with a rope around his neck. If he’d been at his full power, if he’d had his curses, no amount of prayers could’ve kept all these worthless humans alive. He’d kill them. He’d kill every single one of them. He’d rip their hearts out and spit and piss and shit on them.

_“FLOAT! HIM! FLOAT! HIM! FLOAT! HIM!”_

Bellamy was, as usual, right smack in the center of this week’s crapstorm. “Bell’my,” Murphy spoke around his gag, “Bell’my, I didn’t do ‘es.”

Bellamy looked scared, and that frightened Murphy more than any of the beating, the chanting, the rope.

“C’moh,” the demon begged, feeling those awful human tears filling up his eyes as Bellamy hesitated, like he didn’t believe him, like it even mattered if he did. “Cu’h me dow’, Ange’hcakes.”

Bellamy’s fist unfurled slowly, his thumb and forefinger coming together, but it was too late.

Murphy swung.

_ 2149 _

_ The Bridge, Virginia _

“I think we got off to a rough start,” Clarke said gently. “But we want to find a way to live together in peace.”

The Grounder woman with the black warpaint that reminded Bellamy so much of someone else nodded slowly from atop her mare. “I understand,” she replied. “You started a war that you don’t know how to end.”

When Murphy had taken off, bloodied and barely standing, saved by Bellamy’s slow-to-gift-itself miracle and one very little murderer, he swore that Armageddon would come. That all the humans deserved it. That Bellamy deserved it. That he was _done_ helping Bellamy guard the little monster from the world, and the world from her. And that he hoped they all died a great, fiery death, especially.

And now Bellamy was standing dumb and miserable in the bushes, watching the antichrist stare down her first horseman.

War.

_ 2149 _

_ Mount Weather, Virginia _

Of course there would be an underground bunker full of people who sucked the blood of other humans so they could maybe go for a walk outside sometime. Of course there would.

Bellamy looked for the second horseman all the time. When he pulled the lever with Clarke’s hand beneath his and killed them all, guilty or not, he wondered which one of them it was: Conquest.

_ 2149 _

_ The Lighthouse Bunker of the Stupid Man Formerly Known as Chris _

_“You_ eat the forbidden fruit,” said the little glass dog statue to the purple billiard ball. 

“No, _you_ eat the forbidden fruit,” the purple billiard ball said to the little glass dog statue.

“Okay, fine,” Murphy interjected. “Everybody calm down. _I’ll_ eat the fruit.” He grabbed the pistol off of the side table and shoved the barrel of it into his mouth.

“Murphy?”

Murphy looked up, pushing a thick tangle of long hair out of his eye, and smiled. “Angelcakes,” he said around the pistol.

Bellamy’s wings were unfurled in all their glory, taking up most of the room. “I’m sorry. I know you said not to come looking for you, but you were gone for so long.” He swallowed. “I was starting to think that you might’ve—“

“Died?” asked Murphy, and pulled the trigger just as Bellamy reached out and screamed.

Ah, don’t worry. Nothing happened. It never did, when Murphy needed something most.

When he was sitting in the mansion bath not half an hour later, butt-ass-naked in front of an angel, he wondered if he would’ve ceased to exist or been placed in a new human body, and found he didn’t really care either way.

Bellamy and that batshit human he’d followed out into the desert in the first place had sat and watched Murphy eat crackers and drink water like it was their favorite TV show, exchanging information about the computer program, again, that was trying to take advantage of the humans, their hunger to achieve inner-peace at the cost of everything else. “Famine,” Bellamy had said for Murphy’s ears only, and the demon knew the calvary had come, just as he said it would. Just as he prayed it would.

“How long, Murphy?”

Murphy flicked some bathwater onto the wall and watched it drip down, dark on the beige paint. He was trying to make a pentagram.

“How long were you trapped? How long were you starving?”

“Three months.” Murphy couldn’t see the look on his face, but Bellamy stopped washing his hair as if struck. “Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist. We’re billions of years old. That’s nothing.”

“Not for a mortal.”

_“Don’t_ call me that.”

Murphy felt like crying as Bellamy wiped the washcloth along the line of Murphy’s shoulders so slow that it felt like a kiss. 

“You could’ve just _miracle_ ’d me clean, if I disgust you so much,” he murmured, swirling his fingers around in the warm, shallow water. “Or better yet, just left me in there and let me die.”

When Bellamy wrapped his arms around Murphy and let one of his big, freckled hands crawl through Murphy’s wet hair, he knew that he’d lost his mind for sure.

“You don’t disgust me.”

“Gee, thanks,” Murphy whispered.

“Do I have to spell it out, Murphy?” asked the angel. “I’m half of a whole without you. Like it or not.”

And cry Murphy did.

_ 2149 _

_ The Tower, Polis _

They couldn’t stop Death, who rode in on a wave of fire that intended to swallow the Earth whole. Not alone.

“So, you’re an angel, and Murphy’s a demon,” Octavia repeated, counting on her fingers the number of people that needed to be admitted to a psychiatric ward, “And I’m… the antichrist?”

“Glad we got that all cleared up,” Murphy said from across the throne room, yanking a decorative sword out of its intricate wire stand. “Now we’re kind of pressed for time here, so if you could have your crisis later that would be super helpful. Catch." He tossed her the sword, on which Bellamy found the strange hilt and wide blade very familiar. “Now hold that up and say something cool, preferably about saving the world. I’m sure Bellamy has a few ideas if you’re short one."

“Murphy?” Bellamy asked, bewildered.

“Call it a hunch,” Murphy answered, and Octavia hesitantly held up the big sword as everyone in the room watched, looking between her and Murphy and Bellamy like they were certified nut-jobs.

“I would like to not end the world?” Octavia said dubiously, and suddenly, the lost sword of the Guardian of the Eastern Gate caught fire again, fed once more, and the world outside had gone smooth and quiet.

The throne room was engulfed in silence as they all stared at the sword, and then Octavia, her eyes big and baffled, dissolved into giggles. The room erupted into chaos as everyone cheered and screamed like it was the end of WWIII, missing everything but the confetti and streamers. Murphy couldn’t help but smile, and with Armageddon bested and his mission to hold down the antichrist over, he tried one more thing. 

His ash-black wings unfolded with a gust of wind, and spurred on even more confused but excited cheering from the weirdly supportive humans. Murphy laughed. They were actually starting to grow on him.

Bellamy was across the room, staring at Murphy with his eyes wide and round as halos, and in a few long strides stood before him. “How’d you know that would work?”

“I didn’t,” answered Murphy. “I just figured anyone who had you in their life would want the world to be around a little longer." He grinned at his boots. "Guess I was right for once.”

Bellamy laughed, so bright and kind, and closed his white wings around them to finally, _finally_ sweep Murphy into a kiss. Just like the humans did.

Murphy had had 6,000 years to come up with what he might say when this moment came at last. “Mm," he protested, pulling away when Bellamy's lips slid apart from his and doted on the edge of Murphy's mouth so he could speak. "Pomegranate," he breathed, dumbly, and, well, that wasn't quite what he’d decided on.

“I had an apple, actually,” Bellamy murmured against his skin. “Does it matter?”

As the angel went in for another bruising kiss that made the demon's legs feel weak, Murphy supposed it didn’t.

In the second beginning, there was a serpent, an angel, a sword alight, and a fruit of some kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHJDSHFSJFSFDKIEUUNFALNFM;A
> 
> this was the MOST fun i've ever had writing a murphamy fic and i hope you all liked it. thank you so much for reading. drop me a thought if you enjoyed, i put a lot of heart into this one and i'd love some feedback :)
> 
> come get up to shenanigans with me @slugcities on twitter


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